broken wings cannot fly
by unbirthdaydance
Summary: Bel giggled, which was maybe a sound of madness, maybe a sound of mourning. Yamamoto punched him in the face and he went away, laughing, bleeding, laughing.


**Title: **broken wings cannot fly**  
Rating: **r  
**Disclaimer:** If you can sue me for owning it, I don't.**  
Warnings: **deathfic, see end of story for other warning if you need to  
**Pairings: **S80, X80, implied XS  
**Summary:** _Bel giggled, which was maybe a sound of madness, maybe a sound of mourning. Yamamoto punched him in the face and he went away, laughing, bleeding, laughing.  
_**A/N: **TYL AU. What if Tsuna and the gang hadn't come forward in time, and TYL!Tsuna really had died?

oOoOo

The night before Squalo died, they had sex in Yamamoto's bed.

It wasn't any different than any other time they'd had sex. Squalo made love like something was eating him from the inside out- all violence and teeth and snarling into skin. Yamamoto sprawled beneath him, dragged calloused fingers through Squalo's hair and murmured love songs into Squalo's throat. After they'd finished, they curled together underneath the covers, Squalo's hand resting warm on Yamamoto's hip, Yamamoto's lips curving into a soft smile as they fell asleep together.

In the morning, when he woke up, Squalo was gone, leaving sticky sheets and a few strands of long white hair on the left side of the bed. Yamamoto made a note to wash the sheets and went downstairs to make himself eggs. It was snowing outside his little house, flakes drifting from the sky in their airy, spiraling dance.

It was around lunchtime when the doorbell rang. Yamamoto lifted Shigure Kintoki from where it rested against the wall and gripped it in his hand before answering. His precaution turned out to be unnecessary; it was only Bel, shaggy-haired and bundled up in a ridiculous fur coat. He didn't ask to be let in, and Yamamoto didn't offer.

"Hey," said Bel, grin wide and mad as it usually was. "Hey, have you heard the news yet?"

"No," said Yamamoto, fingers clenching tighter on the familiar hilt of his sword. News from the Varia was rarely good news, these days. "What is it?"

"Squalo's dead," said Bel, grin stretching wider, wider, wider. Yamamoto wished he could see Bel's eyes once, just once. "Dead as a doorknob, blood all pretty and red on the prince's hands."

This didn't mean Bel had killed Squalo- Bel would never kill Squalo, Squalo wouldn't let him. Maybe Bel was lying about the blood. Maybe he'd tried to save Squalo. He wasn't lying about Squalo's death though, even Bel would never lie about something like that, something so terrible it squeezed the air from Yamamoto's lungs and made it hard to breathe.

Bel giggled, which was maybe a sound of madness, maybe a sound of mourning. Yamamoto punched him in the face and he went away, laughing, bleeding, laughing. Yamamoto closed the door, resisted the urge to slice his best chair into pieces, dropped Shigure Kintoki carelessly on the floor, and went back to bed. The sheets were cold, and still sticky, and the slender strands of white hair gleamed in the dim snowlight. Yamamoto curled up on the left side of the bed, pressed his face to the pillow, inhaled the scents of blood and sweat and leather. He laid there for a long, long time, just breathing. Then he yanked the covers over his head and went to sleep.

oOoOo

When he woke in the early hours of the next morning, he didn't get out of bed, just stayed there unmoving until his sides cramped and his neck hurt. Then he got up and made breakfast, leaving Shigure Kintoki lying sad and lonely on the floor. Yamamoto stared at the couch for an hour or so, memorizing its curves and lines, the hole in the armrest that Squalo's fist had made by accident one night. Yamamoto punched a hole in the other armrest, gritting his teeth as splinters drove their way into his hand. The new symmetry mocked him, taunting him with its symbolism.

Yamamoto didn't bother to bandage his hand. He ate toast for dinner, toast slicked with blood and splinters that tasted like ash in his mouth. Then he went back to bed, still cold, still sticky, and didn't try to sleep. He stared at the ceiling. He'd never really noticed the ceiling before, its lines and cracks new to him. His hand hurt. Eventually, his eyes closed, and he drifted off into unconsciousness, for all that he wasn't tired.

oOoOo

He woke the next day at around noon and stared at the ceiling some more. One of the fractures in the plaster looked like a shark, mouth wide and gaping and toothy. Yamamoto flung the covers off violently, and went downstairs.

He cleaned the whole house, bottom to top, a restless, angry itch in his fingers. It took him four hours. Once he got to his bed, he froze, the dirtied sheets cold and lifeless in his clutching hands. He tossed the sheets back onto the bed and went downstairs, stalked into the kitchen and flung open the cupboard doors. He grabbed a stack of freshly cleaned plates and hurled them at the now-shining tiles and spat at the shattered mess. Then he stepped on it, laughing brokenly as the ceramic cut his feet and blood leaked through his socks, staining everything a dark scarlet that would be difficult to clean.

He went and sat on the couch, feet still bleeding, and turned to the sports channel. A baseball game was on and the TV was set to mute. Yamamoto didn't bother turning the volume up. He flexed his feet, smiling harshly as pain and broken glass worked their way into his torn flesh.

After an hour or so, the doorbell rang. Yamamoto didn't get up. It rang again, and then not two seconds later, the door fell off its hinges with a loud crash as whoever-it-was kicked it down and strode inside with long, heavy, purposeful steps. Shigure Kintoki was still in the kitchen, lying on the floor. Yamamoto stared at the TV and realized he didn't know what the score was.

"Hey, trash," said his visitor, sharp and guttural. Yamamoto blinked, eyes suddenly watery and lungs suddenly tight. "Hey, _scum_, pay attention to me."

Yamamoto looked up at Xanxus, taking in the wild tangle of hair and the red-ringed eyes. Squalo would have bitched him out for looking like a mess. Yamamoto turned off the TV.

"You're bleeding," said Xanxus accusingly, folding his arms over his chest, like bleeding was a capital crime worthy of the death penalty.

"So?" said Yamamoto.

"You're fucking stupid," said Xanxus and strode forward. Yamamoto got to his feet, fiery agony shooting up the soles of his feet as he put weight on them.

"This is my house," said Yamamoto, which was stupid, and obvious, and really had nothing to do with anything. "You have to fix my door."

"Shut up, scum," Xanxus snarled, and grabbed his shirt and kissed him.

Yamamoto fisted his fingers in Xanxus' coat and didn't kiss him back. Xanxus kissed hard and hungry and possessive, and if he hadn't tasted like fire, he might have been Squalo, teeth sinking into Yamamoto's lower lip and fingers leaving bruises on his skin. Yamamoto gasped and started to cry, tears leaking from underneath his eyelids, chest heaving in huge gasps. Xanxus shoved him down onto the couch and straddled him, teeth biting their way into his ear. Yamamoto pounded a fist into Xanxus' side as Xanxus took a deep breath, inhaling his scent.

"You stink, trash," said Xanxus nastily. Yamamoto didn't point out that he hadn't showered in days, and hit Xanxus again. Xanxus ignored this and returned to kissing his mouth, apparently undeterred by his smell. Yamamoto shuddered and went still, Xanxus' hands sliding up and down his sides, raking through his hair, stroking between his legs. Yamamoto squeezed his eyes shut and pretended there was long soft hair covering him, surrounding him, possessing him.

Xanxus pushed him over sideways, and Yamamoto sprawled out on the couch, eyes itchy and wet and still closed, throat tight. Xanxus crawled on top of him, yanking at his clothes. Yamamoto lifted his hips obligingly, allowed Xanxus to yank his trousers off, then grudgingly undid the buttons on Xanxus' fly. Xanxus fucked him into the couch, then, painful, raw and scratchy, while Yamamoto screamed the wrong name into his ear, and Xanxus growled the wrong name back. Yamamoto came first, arching into Xanxus' touch, gasping and loud. Then he went still as Xanxus drove into him once, twice more, and came shuddering into his body.

Xanxus lay draped over him, chest heaving, eyes shut. Then he pulled out and shifted sideways, still on top of Yamamoto. Yamamoto licked his lips and tasted tears, even though he'd stopped sobbing a while back. He shoved ineffectually at Xanxus' heavy bulk, then sighed and fell asleep.

oOoOo

Yamamoto woke at a sudden onset of freezing cold, as Xanxus climbed off of him, half-naked and scowling. Yamamoto didn't say anything, just watched Xanxus shuffle off upstairs, presumably to find the shower. Yamamoto waited until his teeth started to chatter from the chill, then got to his feet and went upstairs as well, kicking open the bathroom door and insinuating himself into the shower, stripping off his shirt as he did so.

"Get the fuck out, trash," snarled Xanxus, sopping wet and clutching a bottle of shampoo.

"It's _my_ shower," said Yamamoto, and snatched the shampoo away. Xanxus pressed himself as far away from Yamamoto's body as he could get without plastering himself to the wall. Yamamoto shampooed his hair as slowly as possible, watching Xanxus twitch and mutter angrily as he did so. Yamamoto's eyes fell on the shelf just outside the shower, barely visible from behind the misted glass. There were at least seven different kinds of hair product on the shelf; Squalo always had been fussy about that sort of thing. Yamamoto dropped the shampoo bottle on Xanxus' foot, and sauntered out of the shower, ears ringing to the sound of vicious Italian curses that were too quiet, too quiet.

oOoOo

After Xanxus left, without a goodbye and with a good deal more cursing, and a nasty comment on the disgusting state of Yamamoto's still unwashed bed, Yamamoto sat at the kitchen table, stared at the dried mess of broken plates and blood, and cried. He cried until his eyes hurt, and then he went and picked Shigure Kintoki up off the floor and leaned it against a wall and cried some more. Then he went and washed his sheets and cleaned the kitchen floor, and cried and cried and cried until his sides hurt and his entire stock of tissues and toilet paper ran out, leaving him to sob miserably into his least favourite jacket. Then he washed his face and went to the Vongola base, if only to acquire more toilet paper, and supplies to fix his door.

Lambo met him in the halls, with a relieved look in his open eye. "We were worried about you," he remarked. He was walking too close for comfort, Yamamoto noticed, with a sort of desperate haste to his step. Yamamoto sped up, and smiled. Lambo flinched. Yamamoto pretended not to notice.

"I'm fine," he said.

"Gokudera-san wants to see you," said Lambo and walked softer, softer. Yamamoto realized he didn't remember when Lambo had stopped referring to Gokudera as Ahoudera. "He said if you turned up to bring you to him."

Yamamoto nodded and his steps slowed to the beat of hard green eyes and too-short silver hair. They made their way to the conference room, through the winding halls of the underground base. Once there, Yamamoto took a breath and pushed open the door. Gokudera was inside, speaking seriously with a crowd of men in suits Yamamoto didn't recognize. His eyes flickered up at Yamamoto and Lambo for a moment, hard and cold like jade, ringed with puffy dark edges, then back at the men.

"Dismissed," he said sharply. "We'll finish this later."

The men filed out, casting curious glances at Yamamoto and Lambo as they went. Yamamoto ignored them; Lambo shifted about uncomfortably. Soon they were alone, Gokudera's ringed fingers drumming a violent tattoo on the conference table's hard surface.

"Get the hell out of here, kid," he said to Lambo, when Yamamoto didn't say anything. "Go train or something."

"Yes, Gokudera-san," said Lambo, nodding feverishly, and slipped away. Yamamoto stared at the wall behind Gokudera's head and resented the heavy weight of Shigure Kintoki strapped to his back.

"Come here," snapped Gokudera. "And close the door behind you."

Yamamoto stepped into the room, obediently pulling the door closed as well. He folded his hands together, silent.

"Look at you," said Gokudera disgustedly. "You're a fucking mess." When Yamamoto remained silent, he added viciously: "You didn't cry when Boss died. Not one single fucking tear. And now _this_?" He gestured disdainfully at Yamamoto's swollen eyes and bite marks. "For that loud-mouthed, back-stabbing asshole?"

Yamamoto's fingers clenched into fists. Shigure Kintoki felt heavier than ever. Gokudera let out a puff of angry breath.

"Never mind that, then. There's an opening with the Varia now that he's dead. I thought you might be interested."

"No," said Yamamoto.

"Why the hell not?" Gokudera demanded. "You're as good a swordsman as Squalo was. And you actually get along with that asshole Xanxus."

Yamamoto thought of the smell of sweat and fire, of teeth digging ruthlessly into his skin. "No," he said again.

Gokudera growled softly. There were dark rings under his eyes. "Why are you even here, if you don't want to be goddamn useful?" he snapped.

"I needed toilet paper," said Yamamoto. Then added: "And a new door."

"The hell?" snarled Gokudera. When Yamamoto didn't say anything more, he heaved a sigh and waved a hand. "Oh, fine, get your fucking toilet paper and whatever the hell else you want. And get a fucking _grip_. You're not the only one who's lost someone. The rest of us still have to function, you know."

Yamamoto bowed politely and left. His fingers, he noticed, were trembling.

oOoOo

He never did get the supplies to fix his door, or the toilet paper.

Instead, Hibari cornered him, with the sort of feral gleam to his dark gray eyes that never meant anything good.

"You've turned into an herbivore again," Hibari announced. Yamamoto looked at him, clean-pressed suit and sharp, vivid energy and found that he'd curled his hands into fists.

When Yamamoto didn't reply, Hibari snorted. "You're just going to let this go?" he demanded, scornful. "Herbivore."

With that, he brushed past, striding down the corridor, his bird fluttering at his shoulder. Yamamoto watched him go, silent, and suddenly toilet paper didn't seem so important anymore.

He spent time on the computers instead, looking up reports and digging through the Vongola spy network. He stayed there a long time. People came and went, occasionally bringing him food and water. Yamamoto paid them no attention. He slept on the floor in the computer labs for a few hours each night. It wasn't healthy, but that didn't matter. There were things that needed doing. Useful things.

His feet hurt. He never had bandaged them properly.

oOoOo

Then he found what he was looking for.

"Don't do it," said Chrome. Her visible eye was very wide. "I know they killed Squalo, but _don't_."

"They need to die," said Yamamoto, calm, calm. He was, after all, the calm one. Always calm, always reliable, that was Yamamoto Takeshi. The Rain Guardian. Only, they weren't Guardians anymore, none of them, not with Tsuna gone.

"One base isn't going to take them all out, you know."

No, it wouldn't. But it would hurt them badly, and Chrome had to know that. Yamamoto ignored her and went off down the corridor. She followed anyway.

"_Please_. Don't go off on this foolish venture. There's so few of us left these days. We need everyone we can get."

"The Vongola?" asked Yamamoto.

She shook her head. "_We_. Us. _Me_. Gokudera, Ryohei, I-pin. Kyoko. Everyone."

Yamamoto stopped, looked back at her. "Mukuro," he said.

She frowned. "Well, I'm not quite sure how Mukuro-sama feels about anyone, really, but-"

"That's not what I meant," said Yamamoto, still calm, calm. "And you know it."

She froze. Then she lowered her eye and said: "There's a set of bombs the explosives people have been working on. They'll do."

Yamamoto nodded and didn't thank her. She didn't follow him again.

oOoOo

It was a long plane flight, very far away. Yamamoto sat still and didn't move. His legs cramped. He let them. This was a mafia plane, a private jet. No one was here. No one but him. Him and the pilot. Yamamoto didn't read anything, and didn't go to sleep. It should have been boring. Plane flights to Italy usually were. This one wasn't.

Xanxus met him at the airfield, looking a lot less of a mess than he had the last time Yamamoto had seen him.

"I'd pay you," he said, red eyes hard and sharp.

"My bags," said Yamamoto instead of answering.

"Levi's getting them," Xanxus said dismissively. "Him and Lussuria. If-"

"A car," Yamamoto interrupted him. "My bags and a car. That's all I want."

Xanxus stared at him for a moment, stared hard. Then he shrugged and said: "Take this one. I'll call another."

Xanxus tossed him the car keys. Yamamoto collected his bags from Levi and Lussuria when they approached, ignored their condolences. He went to the car, set his bags in the back. Then he got in the driver's seat, put the key in the ignition and turned it.

"Oy, scum."

Yamamoto looked up, saw Xanxus standing there. Xanxus' mouth contorted into a vicious grimace.

"For Squalo."

Yamamoto turned his eyes to the wheel and drove off.

oOoOo

It was a four hour long drive. Yamamoto didn't stop the whole way. His bladder soon hurt, but it didn't matter. Once he got to the base, he got out of the car and assembled the bombs in his bags. Then he set up a minefield- careful, careful- laying the bombs out in precise order. Everything had to be perfect. Then he went inside.

It took skill to sneak inside without anyone noticing. Yamamoto had done it before. It wasn't a problem. He killed people as he went by, always silently. Shigure Kintoki was red with blood. Yamamoto didn't clean it. He hadn't ever killed so many before, all at once.

He got to the center of the building and sat down on the floor, cross-legged. Shigure Kintoki rested at his side. Then he took out the small computer he'd brought with him and turned it on.

oOoOo

It was a long wait while the minefield did its work. Yamamoto watched it all, hacked into the security cameras. A lot of people died. Their deaths were very messy. Lots of blood everywhere. Yamamoto was bleeding, too. He'd gotten hurt on the way in. But it didn't matter. They hadn't killed him.

Once the suitable number of mines had done their work, he switched programs on the computer. He pressed the little red buttons on the screen, setting off the bombs one by one. The compound shook. The circle on the screen shrank and shrank until there was just one little dot left. The ceiling had fallen in and Yamamoto smelled smoke and death and the pain of enemies. He didn't smile. Instead he curled a hand around Shigure Kintoki, slow, tender.

Then he pressed the last little button. The final bomb blew up. The big one. Yamamoto had time enough to glance down before it went off, time enough to relax at the sight of the wires wrapped around his chest.

Over the ruined compound, a small cloud of fire and ash rose into the air.

**FIN**

_other warning would be for suicide._


End file.
